


the importance of body language

by shutyourdamnmouth



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, F/F, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Multi, Non-Graphic Violence, Original Character Death(s)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-22
Updated: 2014-08-24
Packaged: 2018-01-26 02:17:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1671038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shutyourdamnmouth/pseuds/shutyourdamnmouth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>o·ral·i·ty<br/>[ôˈralitē/]<br/><b>noun</b><br/><i>the focusing of sexual energy and feeling on the mouth.</i><br/>---<br/>alternatively: Michael Jones Has A Magical Mouth (and Other Superpowers You've Probably Never Heard Of).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> good lord, here we go. i'll do my best to keep this updated, but i make no promises. after much hassle with the pairings and tags section, i admit defeat and reserve the right to fiddle around with them as i gain my bearings. they should be okay.
> 
> many thanks to [lucy](http://donotchoosesidesyet.tumblr.com), [dex](http://dexanari.tumblr.com), and [toby](http://ticktocktober.tumblr.com) for their ideas, feedback, and beta powers! 
> 
> (a word about content warnings will be down in the end notes.)

**“Austin's Greatest Defeat Evil's Latest: The Infamous Mogar Revealed.”**

The newspaper rustles from the force of Ryan's sigh, then crinkles softly in protest as he folds it neatly and lays it on the tabletop between himself and Michael. It's a poor quality story, thankfully snagged by a higher-up in the  _Times_ instead of actually published. Aside from the soft glow cast by Ryan's old lamp, the room is dark; illuminated by the light, tomorrow's headline glares up at them in thick, bold print.

Michael frowns. “People still read these?”

“They do,” Ryan sighs again, sounding forlorn, and traces the edge of the words with a fingernail. He licks the smile from the corner of his lips, and the article in question comes out as easily as some of his own speeches, but Michael only cares to pick the keyword that sets him as executioner apart from the soft hum of the air conditioning.

“ _Michael Jones_.”

Michael's jaw clenches. He sets his shoulders under Ryan's cool, scrutinizing stare.

“Okay,” he says. “I'll take care of it.”

There's something on Ryan's mind, he knows, but whatever Michael's expression is doing must be enough of a resolution for him because he rises from his chair in a slow stretch instead, drawing himself up to his full height. Finally, he stops trying to hold in his smile.

“I know you will,” Ryan laughs softly. The carpet whispers as he walks from behind his desk and to Michael's side, then curls a casual arm over Michael's shoulders. It's heavy and warm. Ryan's hand is firm as he gives the cloth and skin under his palm a comforting squeeze. “Try not to leave a mess this time.”

* * *

Everything takes about an hour in total, travel time included.

The reporter's house is only twenty minutes away, and the security system is taken out with a quick lockpick and some beef jerky for the little yorkie guard dog that greets him when he slips past the door. Unpacked boxes line the walls.

‘ _You must be new here,’_ floats through his mind. Michael snorts softly.

There's a clatter of metal nearby, followed by swearing and a reprimanding, “Jay, you're late!” coming from what Michael assumes is the kitchen. The hiss of boiling water drowns his footsteps. Back to the door, moving between the pot on the stove and the microwave, his target remains unassuming. He doesn't look much older than Michael himself, and the information rattles off like a checklist.

> _Logan Mitchell Bohl_  
>  _Age 27  
> _ _Freelance Reporter and Photographer  
> _ _Legal Guardian of Jamie Bohl_

Michael closes his eyes, breathes in deep, and pulls Mogar's hood in place.

“Logan,” he calls out, startling Logan into whipping around and splattering  tomato sauce all over the tile. “Hey.” Michael raises a hand in greeting. “You know you had  _one rule_ , right?”

Logan's eyes are wide, terrified, and his throat can't seem to stop trying to swallow his adam's apple down; to his credit, he doesn't try to run.

“I might've heard something about that, yes,” Logan finally whispers. Michael rolls his eyes.

“So what the fuck were you thinking, then?”

“I... Excuse me?”

“The story, you fucking idiot. Why submit it? Why even write it at all?”

“Because people deserve to know!” Logan throws his hands out, incredulous. “Seriously? How can you expect to-- to  _kill_ people and still get a private life?”

Michael barks out a laugh. “You think they don't already know? Oh  _man_.”

Now, for the first time since Michael walked in, his prey is just that. The self-righteous ego that kept Logan inflated melts away, making him seem smaller and smaller until Michael feels so huge it's like he's filling the room by himself.

“I didn't know,” Logan finally manages to breathe out. His eyes are bright. Michael flexes one set of fingers through the grip of his knuckle-dusters, runs the other along the serrations with a disapproving frown.

“Bullshit.”

As Michael takes a step up, Logan presses back against the counter and desperately glances to the doorway. There's no way he'd be able to get by Michael, but logic tends to take a backseat when survival instincts are involved.

Logan's sneakers screech in protest as he bolts across the tile, head tucked under his arms like he's braced for a tackle, and Michael sidesteps on reflex, Logan’s shoulder grazing his side instead instead of nailing him in the gut. The doorjamb  _cracks_ , splintering as they slam into it and crash onto the floor.  Michael quickly swings himself on top, straddling his hips and bringing a forearm down on his throat.

“You fucked up, Logan,” Michael hisses. “You came here on your high fucking horse in bleached fucking armor, but you don't know shit about how this city works. Now, I'm gonna throw you out for good.”

Below him, Logan bucks and snarls in reply. Michael presses down harder on Logan's throat until his fingers are scrabbling at the forearm and he's gasping for air, offers him a grin that's pure teeth as he leans down. He can feel Logan's breath puffing against his cheek.

“But first I guess I gotta find all your shit, huh?” Michael whispers, nose-to-nose, and then even closer as he presses their lips together. The familiar jolt of connection makes his ears ring, his eyes sting, so he shuts them down until everything narrows down to the thrum now stretching through both their minds.

Michael sifts through memories of school days, doctor visits, his mother leaving, his father dying, his little sister's first steps without them, and has to remind himself that these aren't his own because he's got his shit locked down tight despite the pounding he feels against the walls. He looks again, sees coding and degrees this time, latches on to it and follows the string like a rail-line until he finds the information he needs.

Just like that, the connection snaps back and away, and Michael drags what he wants back with him. There are hard-copies of the article in a safe (code is 4948), digital copies privately posted to a site (password: renegator; Jamie's choice) and on a drive he keeps around his neck.

Michael takes the drive first; Logan is sprawled out on the ground, eyes blank and mouth agape, so he just wraps his hand around it and yanks so hard the chain snaps free. The safe is hidden in a cabinet above the fridge-- which requires a chair that Michael will be glad to drop from the story when he reports it all to Gus later-- and he even goes the extra mile with the online copy by deleting the entire blog instead of just the post.

As the hard-copies burn away in the sink, Michael turns back to look at the body left strewn amidst the boxes on the hallway floor. Logan isn't moving or speaking, probably won't ever again, and the movement of his chest is shallow.

‘ _You must be new here,’_ his mind supplies again.

Michael closes his eyes.

* * *

“No problem with the sister, then?” Gus asks him once he finishes reporting. Ryan’s once-comforting hand on Michael's shoulder now rests in the dip of his lower back. Michael makes a face and waves his hand dismissively.

“Like she'd have been one,” he scoffs. “She's, what, ten?” 

“Softie,” Ryan teases, laughing, but not without pride.

* * *

There are a lot of ways to become a Villain. 

You’ve got your typical dickhead things like robbing hospitals or burning shelters; extensive blackmail, establishing smuggling rings, or other high-paying highly-illegal activities, too. Ruling the world is pretty overkill nowadays, but even villains have desperate overachievers, tragic orphans turned vigilantes, corporate moneybags, assholes, and flubs.

See, the world is full of people. Those people are, in turn, full of shit, so sometimes all it takes is conviction because the line between Criminal and Villain might be Mt. Fucking Fuji, but the ground will split itself beneath your feet when you stand against a Hero.

Everyone’s got their own how and why for their what.

In Michael’s experience, the quickest way is to apply for a nine-to-five.

He’d always been a bit of an asshole and a lot of a thief, so when his ability dropped with his balls at the sweet, sweet age of sixteen, nicking the usual amount of stupid shit suddenly wasn’t enough. Once he learned some basic control, the transition from spontaneous sticky fingers to strategizing espionage was easy. Training himself was a pain, but he made more than enough to keep himself and his family alive until the police came knocking and he threw himself on the nearest bus out.

Despite having been chased as far south from Jersey as he could get without leaving the country, Michael was never that upset about it. Running, that is. After all, he wouldn’t have met Ryan without the whole exile bullshit.

Actually, no, fuck giving Jersey credit. If Michael hadn’t gotten drunk at a bar somewhere in Austin and offered himself to the businessman sat beside him in exchange for another shot, it wouldn’t have happened.

(Though Ryan deserves something, too. Accepting Michael’s offer like a creep and then drilling him for details instead of into the ridiculous king-sized mattress probably helped.)

In Michael’s once upon a time, he could wander the city alone and unnoticed. Unknown. Now it doesn’t seem to matter if he walks the streets in torn jeans or his uniform because people give him a wide berth regardless, splitting like skin and bleeding weakly into the other crowds.

They look at him and cast aside the two long years he spent training in the dark, nameless and faceless, in favor of Ryan’s shadow hovering overhead. They look at him and it’s not the same reverent fear Ryan inspires, easily drawing people in by the droves with his dangerous smiles and kind words.

Instead, Michael gets treated like a caged, cornered animal by everyone but the press, who don’t seem to give a fuck if they’re two questions away from getting mauled or fifteen.

Twenty stories up from the cluster of reporters at the front door and Ryan, who remains amicable at the center of it all, the window rattles as Michael slams it shut and draws the curtains against the rapid flash of camera shutters. His bed creaks in protest as he flops on it, the headboard chipping at worn paint, and he breathes a sigh into the sheets.

Maybe two years isn’t long enough.

Michael rolls over, propped on his side close enough to the edge of the bed to reach the remote. The screen hisses awake, filling the room with an echoing white noise for the few seconds it takes everything to connect-- piece of shit cable equipment-- but when the static clears Ryan’s face fills the screen.

“--definitely seems to have a knack for it, doesn’t he?” he says cheerfully, which is all the reason Michael needs to shut it back off. He fumbles the remote in his haste and lets only his most creative swear follow it across the floor. With the internet at his fingertips and his 3DS weighing down his pocket, it should be easy to distract himself from the personal elephant sitting heavier than the silence in his room.

And yet.

The walls feel too close though he knows the dimensions of his room by heart; twelve-hundred by eighteen-hundred square feet, room enough for a ridiculously large bed and an entertainment center, a dresser, his clothes. Thick air coats his throat like water, smothering--

Michael sucks in a sharp breath and jolts upright.

“Okay.” He runs a quick hand through his curls as he stands, snagging his beanie and jacket from where they’re strewn on his dresser by the door. “I need a fucking drink.”

* * *

The little dive bar he hits up for drinks is fairly shitty, the first place he sees after almost an hour of walking, and while the drinks are as cheap as the prices, no one gives a shit that he’s Mogar, the Heir Apparent. He manages to down three Irish car bombs, a screwdriver, and a few pints worth of cheap beer before the bartender cuts him off; he mooches tequila shots off some older women playing pool until the owner kicks him out.

That’s fine, Michael thinks to himself as he staggers down the road, his jacket tied around his waist like a character from some 90’s show. He can’t even remember why he brought the stupid thing. The heat seems to have shot up another thousand degrees, and he’s got sweat clinging exactly where he doesn’t want it. Turning his junk into a gross, sweaty mess is just another part of the night, though. He walks through it and it’s fucking disgusting, yeah, but that’s fine. It’s all fine.

Everything’s better drunk, anyway.

Michael looks up from his feet, trusting himself not to trip in the two seconds it takes him to look around, and barks out a startled laugh. “The fuck am I?”

Half-paved roads and crumbling sidewalks have given way to fenced yards and groomed bushes, the picture-perfect brick house with a soccer mom van literally two houses away.

He’s pretty shocked someone here hasn’t called the cops on his drunk ass yet. It’s the perfect over-reactive neighborhood. Probably has a neighborhood watch program, too.

There’d been a time, not too long ago, when places like this were the perfect target to loot. Homes filled with money enough to spare if a few things here or there went missing. It’d been easier then, as a thief.

“Christ,” he whispers once he rounds the corner. There’s a single house at the end of the street, more plain and homey than any others on the block, but despite the darkness and beer goggles the rose bushes do little to hide the edges of a motion detection system from Michael.

He takes a few cautious steps closer. From what he can tell, the windows are bare and the lawn has no signs or warnings to ward people away; though he can see the light of an armed alarm in the gap between curtains inside, the glow too faded to be for the front door. A low, steady buzzing clings to the windows—probably a pressure sensor. There are very few security companies in America that don’t slap something on the property to stake their claim, even less that offer services in Texas. To find a custom, high-security setup installed in some fucking suburbanite’s home…

Michael slowly kneels beside the motion sensor, his sobriety toeing back towards tipsy.

Instead of fulfilling the very advanced ‘thing moves, turn light on’ requirements, this one is tiny enough to blend in with the flowers and connects to a wire that leads into the house-- to another alarm, probably.

Three and counting, just from outside observation, which is three more than what usually gets his attention. His curiosity is, admittedly, very piqued. Of course he’d run into this after getting drunk off his ass, like it’s some sort of test provided by the universe because he dared to question it.

Michael laughs softly and pulls out his custom break-in kit from his back pocket.

The wire between motion sensors and alarm cuts easily, no muss or fuss, though he almost expects the front stoop to be a trapdoor instead. Picking locks isn’t as second nature as it was back in Jersey; it takes him a minute longer than it should thanks to his lack of sobriety, to the point that Michael is left swearing promises under his breath once he finally pops it open and slips inside, his MacGyvered taser in hand. Quickly, he presses it against the keypad behind the door, holding it there until the air crackles with electricity, sharp like a whip, and fades with the numbers on the alarm panel as it shorts out.

A fuckton of shoes (men’s, size 11) perfectly line the inner doormat where it meets the living room carpet and the furniture (white, leather, overstuffed, probably overpriced) is, much like the shoes, pure and pristine. Even the scattered ashtrays feel posed, cherries on top of the overly creepy cake that makes up this entire fucking place.

‘ _Like a dollhouse.’_

Michael grimaces. He slinks back to the shadows along the wall, careful to keep his gloveless hands in mind. The second alarm is at the bottom of the basement stairs, glowing so bright it lights the steps as if welcoming him closer. Unfortunately, these aren’t what he aims to please; it gets the same treatment as the last.

The door’s first lock is easy as shit to get through once he’s got the routine down, and all the keypad attached to the handle needs is a glance to see what numbers are most often pressed, but the deadbolt at the top of the column is a fucking pain. It’s been years since he spent so long on a lock, back when Ryan had first started testing him to see what needed work, yet here he is, four minutes into one of his better skills and still listening to things click and clack uselessly. Michael breathes in deep, presses his ear to the wood, and uses his irritation as energy.

It seems like only moments later that he hears the soft  _snikt_ of the lock, tension rolling off him like water. He doesn’t bother fighting off his grin, swelling up with pride for a job well done. A light flicks on as he swings the door open, but when his eyes adjust he feels whatever remnants of alcohol and adrenaline still in him melt away. The room’s so fucking empty that crickets are chirping in the distance. He’d gone through at least 5 security systems to get in here-- why have all of it for nothing?

He stares at the blank walls in confusion, stunned silent for the first time in a long time, and from the depths of his pocket Michael’s DS plings softly.

The soft green light pulses once, twice, through the fabric and then the wooden floor behind him gives a whining creak. There isn’t much time to brace himself; he whips around in time to see the end of a broom as it whistles through the air, hear the crunch of his glasses, and then everything goes dark.

* * *

Consciousness comes back to him in pieces, as fractured noises and blips of light that he does his best to ignore, as tight restraints on his wrists and ankles, as soft cushions pressing against his back, and as his still throbbing head. Dried blood clings to his temple, tacky, and he wonders how long he’s been out.

The play-by-play of everything that happened since he set eyes on the damn house runs on a constant loop.

It was a trap. Of course it was a trap.

No idea how he was meant to know it was a fucking trap since word on the street this week didn’t include a vigilante hero who battles B&Es with his mousetrap of a house, but of course.

Michael squeezes his eyes tighter, digs his nails into his palms, grits his teeth until they hurt, and then lets out a sharp, frustrated breath. The only thing in front of him is one of the blank fucking walls and another chair. He’s busted.

Time to get it over with.

“Hey, I’m up,” Michael calls out.

“Oh, thank god you’re alive,” a voice says almost immediately, somewhere behind him and to the left. Whoever it is sounds cheerful, yet strangely familiar. Michael cranes his neck back and squints until the blobs of color separate into jeans, a plaid shirt. “So much for double-tapping, huh?”

“Haha, yeah, you really got me,” Michael replies. He doesn’t mean to sat it so sharply, but it’s there now and that’s where it’ll stay. He hears a snort, almost covered by the scrap of wood across the concrete, and then his captor comes into view, the very picture of Texas Businessman with a trucker cap cherry on top.

Glasses or not, concussion or not, Michael’s seen enough of his face plastered on the news next to Ryan’s that the information comes to him easily-- Burnie Burns, founder and manager of the heroic freak show that makes up Austin Advanced.

Of course.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Michael says. The chair gives a slow creak as Burnie leans back in it, his arms crossed.

“Yeah,” he sighs. It sounds a lot more tired than his sharp eyes make him seem; which, yeah, understandable. Ryan and Burnie have had a tentative truce for nearly five years, and now Michael is flushing it away. That’s not gonna sit well with anyone within five miles of the fucking city, let alone with Burnie… or Ryan.

“So… now what?” Michael asks. Burnie hums, thoughtful, and stretches his legs out to hook them together at the ankles. His gaze seems far-away. It’s a trial for Michael not to slump in his seat, fling his head back, snarl at the sky and air and everything around him. Ryan’s training bleeds into the edge of his mind; his skin tightens around the burns on his back, his chest aches from phantom water, and the ache in his head starts to fade as he sucks in a breath and holds it.

A soft  _tick tick tick_ echoes from upstairs.

Michael shifts irritably, rattling the cuffs to draw Burnie’s attention back.

“Hey,” he snaps. “Now fucking what?”

“Why?” Burnie asks. At the confused silence, he continues, “You smell like booze and obviously weren’t trying to come at me personally.”

“So what?” Michael mutters.

“So why break in?”

“Why not?”

“I assume Ryan pays you well.”

“He pays me fine.”

“Then  _why_?”

“ _Why_ the fuck does it matter?” Michael snarls. Their eyes lock, equally stubborn, and Michael stares as forcefully as he can until Burnie finally sighs again and smears a hand over his face. There’s silence, at least a minute of it, and then a laugh shatters it. Burnie’s shoulders begin to shake as it grows louder, burying the ticking clock.

“Y’know I--,” he cuts off in a peal of booming laughter. “All my fucking tech and I only caught you ‘cause we streetpassed. How stupid is that?” Michael bites down on his lip, and Burnie mimics the action as he leans in closer. He gives an exaggerated glance around the room, then mock-whispers, “I don’t even fucking live here.”

It’s the first time Michael’s been caught on accident, tied up to a cushioned seat, and then laughed with instead of at. Suddenly, it feels less like being captured and more like being at a kinky sleepover.

“He takes care of me,” Michael admits. “Ryan, I mean. Free room and board, full access to his bank account, all-day rides to wherever I want…” He shrugs. “It’s great, I’m thankful; just doesn’t give  _me_ much of an income.”

“Why ask for an allowance when you can earn it instead,” Burnie agrees. “Well, I use the word ‘earn’ lightly. You’re basically cheating.”

“Is a lecture my punishment or are you just stalling until you can think of one?” Michael scoffs. A beat of silence passes, then:

“What about a compromise instead?” Burnie asks.

“If it involves ‘using my mouth for a personal good’, you can fuck off,” Michael deadpans. Burnie reels away, his face twisted in offense.

“Wh-- No! No, god, what do you think I am, a pimp? Christ. The deal is: you do some work for me around here— upping my security, fixing things, mowing the lawn like you fuckin’ kids are  _meant_ to do for work—and in return this break-in never happened.”

“Seriously?” Michael groans. The chair creaks again as Burnie moves out of it and crouches down in front of him, handcuff key in hand. He moves slow, removing the cuffs from Michael’s ankles first, his left hand, his right. Burnie looks him in the eye, clearly amused.

“I think it’s pretty fair,” he says.

“You would,” Michael grumbles as he rubs his newly-freed wrists. “But I don’t really have a choice, do I?”

“You start tomorrow.” Burnie grins. “Now get the fuck out of my house.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Costuming, community service, and a meeting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well. here we are at last. in my defense, i did warn y'all that it might take a while for updates. there may also be some shit going on with the tenses in one section. i'm not sure. *shrug*
> 
> much love and appreciation to [dex](http://dexanari.tumblr.com/) and [lucy](http://donotchoosesidesyet.tumblr.com/) for their feedback!
> 
> (as usual, content warnings can be found in the end notes.)

It’s a lovely Thursday morning with beautiful blue skies alight from the sun, a gentle breeze carrying away the sweltering edge of summer, sweet baby puffs of clouds drifting overhead as make-shift shade, gentle coos tinkling down from the trees, and Michael’s already had enough. He wipes away a few beads of sweat with a sleeve before they can slink down his neck and groans.

God, his _everything_ hurt.

His glasses do fuck-all to combat the Texas sun and he feels half-baked already, his skin pulled taut and already chapping while his stomach rolls in protest at the greasy wafts of hot dog carried from upwind. Every noise is a painful screech that he grinds his teeth against. His entire body throbs in tune with the feet pounding the pavement around him, irregular and annoying.

The sweat pools up again, this time somewhere in his hair. It makes his head itch and his irritation skyrocket. Michael gives his head a fierce shake to dislodge the cloying feeling. The 90s call out to him, and he answers with a low grumble as he slips his hoodie off and ties it around his waist. Leave it to good ol’ Texas Hellfire to remind him that he’s overdue for a trim.

Something wet and heavy slaps into his legs the minute Michael rounds the corner into The Cul-de-sac of Nightmares. A small voice squeals in delight. Michael inhales slowly and counts backwards from ten.

It’s been two weeks since his drunken B&E that’s fourteen days spent washing cars, mowing lawns, cleaning gutters, moving furniture, and babysitting the neighborhood’s trash children because apparently that’s Burnie’s idea of what ‘kids his age’ do, never mind that Michael is twenty-fucking-four.

_‘… nine... eight... seven... six...’_

Burnie has been working him towards more interesting jobs like patching rooftops and rewiring security systems for neighborhoods Michael himself is more familiar with, but it’s so fucking boring. The only thing keeping Michael from dying a slow, slow death at the hands of menial chores is the little nuggets of information Burnie has let slip.

_‘… five... four... three...’_

So far all Michael knows about Burnie himself is that he’s a bleeding heart for his family of Heroes, has a thing about strays, and is incredibly talented at only telling Michael what he already knows. The tiny peeks he’s been able to glean about Burnie’s heir, things Michael’s run into wall after wall trying to get a glimpse of, are almost worth keeping a lid on his anger at being treated like a child.

_‘… two... one...’_

“You better get the fuck off before I toss you to the moon,” Michael says to the wet, little bundle of limbs wrapped around his thighs. Large, brown eyes gaze up at him from where they’re buried in his jeans. Michael smiles sweetly. He doesn’t remember her name. “There’s no air up there so you’ll probably die.”

She pulls away to grin up at him, two less teeth than she had yesterday. “Swimmies,” she demands.

Michael opens his mouth, swear halfway done rolling from his tongue, when a soccer ball smacks him in the center of his forehead and twists the noise into a startled yell. The little girl detaches from his legs as momentum carries him backwards and she races off with a loud peal of laughter.

Michael grits his teeth against the headache swimming back into full focus and tosses a glare over at Burnie, who crosses his arms disapprovingly from his place on his front porch.

“Way to be on time,” he says with a frown. The only reason Michael doesn’t petulantly reply with, ‘at least I’m here’ is because he tried that on day six and Burnie snorted so hard he almost inhaled his stupid fucking beard. Michael does, however, make a very unflattering face at him.

“What is it, an age thing? A disease? There’s gotta be an actual reason why everyone in their twenties has the maturity of toddlers.” Burnie muses aloud, seemingly to himself. He sounds like he’s talking from experience; kinda like how Ryan sounds when complaints are filed about Michael breaking the coffeemaker just before someone important shows up for a meeting.

“So Vav’s around my age, then?” Michael asks, aiming for casual and pretty sure he lands it. He crosses his own arms to match Burnie’s. So far so good. “Maybe a bit younger?” he hazards. Burnie answers him with a raised brow. Michael grins. “And an idiot?”

“The biggest one I know,” Burnie admits, fondly.

Michael hums and lets the topic lapse. His usual work table at the back of the house is littered with various bits of a security system, circuit boards half-assembled and electrical locks in pieces. Today is, apparently, not going to be a complete waste of his life.

“I was picking up my glasses,” Michael belatedly answers. “Y’know, those new ones I had to get after you cracked me in the head with a two-by-four and broke the old ones.”

“Oh, you mean those new ones that I paid for?”

“Yeah, those. The ones I still had to walk to the fucking moon and back to get.”

“It was barely across town!” Burnie says, exasperated. He uncrosses his arms, hands propped on his hips, and sighs. “Okay, I’ll bite. Why’d you walk?”

Michael’s eyes reflexively dart down to check that said hands are empty. “No reason aside from today being _too beautiful_ to not spend two fucking hours walking in.” He scratches idly at his jaw, shrugs a shoulder, plops down into the chair by his worktable. “Also, Ryan won’t let me use the car until this bullshit’s over with.”

“Oooh, grounded. Condolences.” Burnie says, without a hint of sympathy. “But, hey, at least Ryan’s fine with just the community service.”

_‘Grounded is one hell of an understatement,’_ Michael thinks wryly. _‘As is the idea that Ryan’s anywhere near okay with this.’_

(See, anger had never been Ryan’s thing. Much like Michael’s actual parents, he preferred to go down the route of making you realize you were a disappointment. In fact, the last time Michael screwed up this badly, Ryan had sent Michael on a one-way flight back to Jersey with only the words ‘strictly business’ to go by and didn’t call him home for two entire weeks.

Two. Weeks.

He’d spent those two, extremely long weeks crashing on the roof of an old friend’s apartment and clinging to the alleyways like paint. His expulsion from the state was still valid, anyway; Michael didn’t know what he was meant to be doing there. Somehow, Ryan always seemed to be in a meeting whenever Michael tried to contact him and, technically, Ryan hadn’t even called him home.

Michael had been furious by the time he made it back-- to this day, the office doors leading out of the lobby still creak dangerously when they open. Despite the late hour, Ryan had patiently, quietly remained seated, looking at nothing over to the top of his folded hands while Michael railed at him.

“Take me in or kick me out, Ryan-- I fucking don’t care what you choose!” he’d screamed. “But how about you tell me to my fucking face instead of shipping me off? What were you hoping I’d do, beg you?”

And Ryan, ever calm and collected, had tore his hands apart then and smacked them onto his desk with a loud, echoing **slam**.

“Why were those your orders, Michael?” Ryan had said, a dangerous rumble. “Did you even stop to think about it?” He locked his gaze with Michael’s his eyes, sharp as knives, cut almost as deep as his words. “Do you stop to think _at all_?”

Michael’d bit his tongue against the immediate retort and glared down at the floor. He tried to remember his deep breathing-- it’s a countdown, he’d learned that already, just start up at ten-- and Ryan’s chair gave a soft whine.

“Look at me, Michael.” His hands had been gentle as he tipped Michael’s head up, searching his eyes for something and then sighing softly when he’d apparently found it. “The next time I tell you to do something, I need you to do more than just listen. You have to _obey_. Okay?” Then after a beat of silence, with steel in his voice, “ _Okay_?”

“Yeah, fine, I got it,” Michael had managed, swallowing once to wet his throat. With another sigh, Ryan had tapped his jaw with the fingers still curled under his chin and Michael had stepped in closer. A large, warm arm had wrapped around him, and the hand cupping his face moved around to the back of his neck, tugging his face down into the crook of Ryan’s neck.

“I can only do so much, Michael,” he’d said, gently. “That’s why I’m supposed to have you.”

“Well, you’ve got me.” The words had tickled his lips as they vibrated against Ryan’s skin, and Michael had closed his eyes to the feeling as he breathed in the familiar smell of cologne. He never really cared that Ryan’s arms had felt like a cage locked tight around him, as long as the door was left open.

Honestly, Michael still doesn’t care. He’s not stupid. He knows that siding with Ryan is the same as making a deal with the devil-- but he’s never really been too good of a person anyway; sometimes that’s the best deal you’ve got to sign-- and he also knows that Ryan’s _pissed_ about his drunken escapade because he’s never liked being caught by the hair and led around.

For Ryan to be ‘fine with it’... well, it’s not like Michael’s keeping a very close eye on the bank account to be ready for another sudden flight to Jersey, but losing access to the car, the money, and even the mission is _nothing_. It’s fucking _nothing_ to him and he wishes the other shoe would just fucking drop already.)

“How the hell would _you_ know? Aren’t you two mortal enemies or something?” Michael mutters in irritation, but Burnie just smiles that same smug, satisfied smile he did on day one after Michael’s probation as Mogar had begun.

“Trust me, okay?” Burnie laughs. “I know how contracts work. We got it all figured out.”

Michael doesn’t know what the fuck that means, and he isn’t given a chance to ask. A shrill screaming noise erupts from Burnie’s shirt pocket, startling them both, and the man in question quickly disappears around the corner of the house with a rushed, “shit, sorry, I gotta take this.”

Determined to get his work done before midnight, Michael tugs one of the destroyed digital locks over. He’s in middle of stripping the wires when he catches a snatch of conversation.

“Nah, he’s not with me... No, I don’t know... I haven’t seen him... Geoff, _I don’t know_... Because today’s my day off, asshole!”

Geoff. That was a name Michael saw a lot of in the older records about Austin Advanced; the most recent date of mention had been over a year ago. Last he heard, Geoff had retired from the AA program-- right around the time reports and sightings about Vav started getting published, if Michael remembers correctly.

“Christ, I’m in the middle of-- alright, _fine_! I’ll head over there and check. Don’t call me if you find him first, just kick him in the dick and send a picture.”

Burnie’s tone, though a lot more irritated now than it had been earlier, still carries the same undercurrent of fondness. With AA, each Hero got their own handler, and if Geoff was Vav’s...

“Looks like someone’s in trouble,” Michael says in greeting as Burnie rounds the corner. His shoulders are pulled taut, jaw clenched, and gait heavy.

“I’m gonna stuff that little prick in a box and mail him back overseas,” Burnie agrees. His things rattle together as he jams them into his pockets. Michael restrains himself from turning in his seat to watch.

“So he’s a foreigner?” he ventures. Birds sing down from the roof, children laughing carries in with the wind, and the things clunking behind him abruptly go quiet. The silence feels like it spans across minutes. His patience already stretched thin, Michael glances over his shoulder and raises a brow in question at the assessing look Burnie’s giving him.

“You better start working if you ever wanna get outta here,” Burnie replies at last. It’s not a denial. As Burnie walks by, Michael finally exhales the hint of a grin that’s been threatening to split his face since Burnie opened his loud mouth.

“You got it, boss!” Michael calls out cheerfully. He tries not to enjoy it too much when Burnie lets his middle finger trail after him around the corner.

* * *

The sky is ripe with a fresh, red sunset by the time Michael finishes cleaning everything and locks it back up Burnie’s dollhouse.

His bones creak when he stands, and he briefly gives in to the desire to rub at his back like an old man once he realizes the streets are neighborhood is empty, then reaches up to the sky. He’s got a long walk ahead of him, might as well get limbered up so he doesn’t need a break halfway home.

Easing further back into the stretch, Michael groans quietly when his bones begin to pop. The steady, satisfying crack travels outwards, from his back to his limbs to his neck to the curling tips of his toes, and then he shakes out the tingling in his fingers so he can fish out his phone.

Ryan answers on the first ring and Michael breathes out a quiet sigh of relief.

“Hey, I’m done for today. You want anything before I come home?”

“Nice of you to ask. We could use another jug of milk and some bread.”

“You’re hilarious.” Michael rolls his eyes at the laughter in Ryan’s voice. “Seriously, though. You’ve gotta have something for me.”

“Michael, I meant it when I said Mogar was on vacation until your work with Burns is over.”

“... _But_?”

“But,” Ryan admits with a sigh. “I did just get a call from Jordan asking for some help getting home. I’ve already sent the car to pick him up, but I’m sure he’d appreciate your muscle.”

“Done!” Michael blurts immediately, punching the air with the fist not clutching his phone and then hanging up after a rushed goodbye. He remembers the last night’s fuss vividly, and not just because it had been the most excitement he’d seen since probation. For months now, Jordan’s been collecting spare change in an old water jug he kept propped by his desk, swearing he’d cash it in soon, and at around eleven last night Chris had broken his toe on it.

Michael doesn’t know what help is required, but he feels rejuvenated at the chance to dust off Mogar again, even for only a few hours. He jogs most of the way to Jordan’s bank, tugging his hoodie free from his waist and shaking it out. Reversing it while in motion is harder to do than his usual slip on, snap button, unzip, detach, re-snap routine, especially when the sleeves keep catching in the zip, but he manages. There isn’t anywhere to put his spare clothes if he changes completely, so he settles for just the hoodie and crams the newly removed sleeves into the depths of his pockets.

(He’ll need to speak with Gus about sanctioning him a new wardrobe, maybe something with less thick layers and fur so he isn’t as much of a ball-sweltering mess. They’ll rehash the Secret Identity problem again, Michael will ignore him in favor of not being too chicken shit to show his face-- unlike Burnie’s heir-- and they’ll all have a fun time.)

Michael’s got half a glove hanging from one hand and two fingers crammed into the wrong sleeve when he spots movement in the alley near the bank’s rear door.

There, propped against the wall and hidden behind a few trashcans, is Jordan. Michael checks that the coast is clear before he ambles over.

“Hey! Mogar lives!” Jordan greets him, cheerful, but his smile strained. “Where’s the rest of your get-up?”

“At home, where the upper half is supposed to be.” Michael swats the hand gesturing to his pants away, and Jordan accepts the dismissal with a small shrug.

“Nevermind, then. Welcome to the party. Some idiots tried to rob the place. I managed to slip away when one of them tried to put me with the others, but the staff already triggered the alarm. Civilians are still inside. Heroes are dealing with it now.”

“So what’s the SOS for?” Puzzled, and a little suspicious, Michael looks him over. His perfectly gelled hair is still perfect, his crisp button-down is still buttoned; Jordan offers him a sheepish grin and tugs up one lime-green pant leg to show off his bare foot, mottled with purple and yellow all the way up to his ankle.

“Dropped the jug on it.” At Michael’s judgmental side-eye, he tacks on an indignant, “They startled me!”

Heaving a sigh so large it makes his body bend, Michael slings Jordan’s arm over his shoulders and eases him off the wall. There’s a main road they can reach easily if they cut through a few more alleys, then they can track down the car. (Jordan’s jug will have to stay in the bank where he’d dropped it, though. No way in hell Michael’s facing two Heroes for roughly $52 in change.)

They’ve barely made it to the lip of the next alley when the back door bursts open and several men in ski masks flood out, firing behind them into the bank. Michael quickly slips around the corner, out from the line of sight, and a sleek black Mercedes pulls up to the curb. The door pops open on its own.

“Our ride!” Jordan cheers. He sways towards it, and Michael leans with him so he doesn’t crack his stupid head on the roof. The upholstery squeaks loudly as Jordan slides to the furthest seat, almost immediately swatting at Michael, who snorts and shoves one foot inside.

“I’ll get ‘em, Vav! You just guard the door!”

Michael jerks to a stop and snaps his eyes back to the alley.

_‘Don’t do it,’_ his brain hisses. _‘Don’t you fucking do it. You’re almost done. It’s not worth the trouble.’_

“Michael?”

“Mother _fucker_ ,” Michael snarls, both feet back on the pavement. Jordan leans into view, straining against the seatbelt with the most confused look on his face. Unfortunately, Michael doesn’t have the patience to explain how much of a fucking idiot he is; instead, he offers Jordan a wry, “forgot your jug,” and slams the door.

What’s left of his better judgment screams at him as he pivots, gives the trunk a hard slap to kick the car into motion, and then takes off, jumping overturned trashcans and side-steps shipping crates as he goes. He can hear hushed voices drifting out of the still open back door when he reaches it, but can’t quite make out the words. Carefully, Michael presses flush against the wall and peeks around the doorframe.

At this hour there aren’t many people left in the bank and standing in the middle of the five or so civilians still inside, dressed in a tight blue shirt, red skinny jeans, and partially stained sneakers, is Vav. He’s taller and scrawnier than Michael thought he’d be, and when Vav turns to answer a woman on his right Michael has to fight the urge to laugh because, Jesus fucking Christ, he’s also about ten thousand times more British.

The bit Michael finds himself stuck on, though, is the stark white mask shading his eyes. Michael can’t tell if it’s there for Vav’s power or if it’s just to conceal his identity, because getting any goddamn information about him prior to now has been a lot like pulling teeth.

Of course, now that Vav’s here, there’s always the easy way...

In his pocket, buried under his detached sleeves, Michael’s phone starts buzzing and doesn’t stop. He takes a moment to thank the fucking lord he remembered to silence it and then fishes it out. There’s a stream of text messages from Jordan flashing across the lock screen. He only looks at the last four.

 

> [Wtf michael]  
>  [Where r u?]  
>  [MICHAEL I KNOW U DON’T CARE ABT MY JUG]  
>  [I’m gonna tell Ryan.]

Michael rolls his eyes, halfway through a scathing text telling the big baby to calm his poopy diapers when someone to his right gasps out a sharp, “Mogar!”

Startled, Michael wheels around, fists raised and ready, and comes face-to-face with Vav.

Up close, he’s about two inches taller than Michael and seems to have dedicated a good eighty percent of body just to his gangly limbs. Michael could easily break him in two.

His phone, still clenched tightly in his fist, buzzes again.

“Well, fuck,” Michael says, then swiftly upends a nearby garbage can.

Vav makes a high-pitched, shrill noise, like a bird, _like Burnie’s ringtone_ , and darts back. His body is curling in on itself, one leg half-raised. Michael ducks through his limbs, hefts him up by the thighs, and slams him against the wall.

Almost immediately, the flailing begins. Vav doesn’t have much strength to him, but his movements are wild and unpredictable, and his elbows are fucking sharp. Michael blocks what he can, grunts in pain at what he can’t, takes a fist to the chin when Vav tries to scramble higher up the wall, so Michael starts grabbing. He snags one wrist, two; Vav gasps out a hard **oof** when Michael pins both over his head and slams him against the wall again.

Just as suddenly as it began, it stops; together, they catch their breath. This close, like before, it’s easier to notice a few things. Vav’s mask, a little lopsided from their scuffle, doesn’t fit with the curve of his face and the shades over his eyes look like they’ve been ripped from a pair of sunglasses, maybe even are a pair of sunglasses. Beneath the lenses, Vav’s eyes dart everywhere-- to the ground to his lips to the sky to the bank to his lips to the alley to his lips-- but Michael can spot that pattern easily.

_‘He knows.’_

A slow grin settles on his face, twisting his lips in a way he’s heard described as dangerous, and his spine rolls loose so he can press closer in a languid stretch.

“So,” Michael drawls, brushing the words over Vav’s cheek. “Looks like you’re nothing much.”

“That's rude,” Vav replies shakily. “Everyone else thinks I'm a little lovely boy.”

“Yeah?” Michael snorts, pausing when Vav twitches and then humming low as he drags his nose down along the line of Vav’s neck, just to feel him shiver. Playful tactics have never been his forte, extraction-wise, if only because he’s never liked how greasy it made him feel afterward, but Vav keeps mindlessly shifting in his arms and none of the ways he moves are away.

(Seems like they’ve both been circling each other for awhile.)

It’s the perfect opportunity. Vav had approached him first, literally calling him out, and Michael had done a great job of not killing him. He could probably make it count towards what he still owed Burnie, too.

Slowly, he shifts the grip on Vav’s wrists to one hand. His other, newly freed one sweeps over the prominent line of his neck, right where he’d dusting his nose over before, and down the still heaving slope of his chest-- Vav twitches slightly when the touch curves with his side; Michael files it away ( _‘Ticklish?’_ ) and moves on. His hipbone is a sharp, inviting jut from beneath his shirt so Michael curls his palm over it

and tips his head up from where he’d been ghosting over Vav’s collarbone.

The two inches Vav had on him before are now a good four with his legs wrapped around Michael’s waist and propped against the wall. It’s a bit of a stretch, but Michael’s managed worse. He hesitates only long enough to sort out the angle around Vav’s nose before swallowing the breath between them.

Contact is a rail-line and the spark begins in Michael. He follows the tracks laid down through his mouth, across the tip of his tongue and to Vav’s, into his brain. Sometimes, Michael likes to think of it as old-fashioned explosives, because he’s always liked the way fire chases down gunpowder and ropes; other times, he thinks back to what he’d learned for the first and only legal job he’s ever had, and then he’s the electricity running through wires.

He follows what he now knows is instinct to tap into the part of Vav’s brain that mirrors where he keeps his personal things, a little surprised when he gets an image of a cat instead of Vav’s real name. The location had been a guess, though; it always was. Michael hops tracks, tongue pressing through the seam of Vav’s lips, and looks a little harder. He thinks he might have a glimmer of something, a memory of laughter that feels warm like Michael imagines home would, but when he gets there he’s left staring at some stupid video he saw online months ago.

He-- he’s never had this much trouble finding information in his life. Heroes were always hard since they’d gone through basic mental training, and Michael sure as fuck wasn’t a stranger to broadcasting his face, his name, and where he stands to whoever wanted to know, but they’d always kept his ability a little more under wraps. How’d the Heroes know to train so specifically against him?

_‘Is this why he’s the heir?’_

_‘Do what?’_ a voice not his own answers. Michael recoils immediately, all the way back into his own mind. He lets out a strangled, confused noise and stares at Vav’s flushed face, bewildered. Vav, lips bruised red, swallows again and looks back at him with dazed eyes.

“What?” he asks faintly.

“I don’t _know_!” Michael snarls, then reels Vav back in. The second kiss is quicker and more frustrated; he grabs the first memory he finds and rips into it, watching as Vav, sprawled out on his stomach in the sunlight like a cat, suddenly shifts to the dark interior of a bar with no one in it.

(Nothing.)

The third kiss is only the third because Michael needs more air if he’s gonna figure out what the fuck in going on in Vav’s head. He lets it carry him where it may this time, but regrets that immediately when it brings him to Vav’s arrest score and plays the highlight reel in slow motion.

(Nothing.)

In a last-ditch attempt at steering this fucking wreck, Michael gets another breath into his legs, cradles Vav’s head in the palms of both hands, seals their panting mouths together, and envisions Burnie. He can remember the conversation that wasn’t earlier, feels it implant into Vav’s mind, and tries to follow when it bolts off. He angles Vav’s head as he presses deeper, hoping that maybe a stronger connection would help, but all it gets him is a headache from hell as he chases thoughts around the way a dog does its tail.

(Fucking _nothing_.)

Michael desperately drags Vav through a series of rough, sipping kisses, sloppier than any he’s done before because his chest is burning from the abuse to his lungs and he’s so fucking furious he can hardly see. His hand gets caught in Vav’s mask on the way to his wild hair, and Michael pulls it free with a growl and then gets himself a good handful of hair just to get some of the frustration out.

Finally, they pull apart and stay there, panting hard into the space between them. Michael barely registers Vav’s hands latched to his biceps, spindly legs wrapped so tight around his hips he aches. Absently, he remembers the hangover he had earlier this morning and has to tamp down the hysterical laugh that bubbles up.

Michael looks up, resigned to his failure but determined not to leave without a clue of what Vav really looks like--

Lightning shoots down his spine. Michael’s tongue freezes mid-swipe over his lips, and it feels four sizes too large while his throat feels ten sizes too small, strangled his breath into a wheeze. He thinks Vav mirrors the noise but Michael’s body is rigid to the point of cramping, gaze locked on Vav’s bright green eyes. They look like they’re glowing.

“Hey, Vav, we’re good here! Boss wants us back at--  _whoa! Jesus_ \--”

A foreign voice paired with the loud, sudden squeal of boots finally jerks Michael’s gaze away, though not without a startled swear. His brain and limbs and _everything_ feel like mush; through the confusing onslaught of his thoughts, he makes out a figure.

Shorter, thinner, weaker-- Michael notes automatically-- wearing a green sweatshirt with a black hood, pulled up, and black pants, black boots, and a stripe of black-red glass that cover his eyes like a visor. Michael stares at the logo on his chest until it finally clicks.

X-ray glances between them, his face scrunched up in distaste. When he speaks, his voice is an incredulous yet deadpan, “You fuckin’ serious right now?”

Vav’s arms tighten around Michael’s, but it does nothing to stop his ass from dropping straight to the ground with a pained yelp. Michael takes a step back, heart in his throat and hands in the air, placating. A trashcan clatters to the ground in the wake of Vav’s rapid descent.

_‘You’re outnumbered,’_ his mind whispers, and Michael, brave heir to the shadow empire that he is, turns fucking tail and bolts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter has some brief descriptions of injuries, slightly creepy powerplay dynamics, and michael using his kiss-people-for-info powers. the other party is into it, but there's no permission asked so.
> 
> again, i'll do my best to make sure things that need to be tagged are. if there's ever something you'd like me to tag or warn for, just let me know!

**Author's Note:**

> the reason i've tagged this fic with mildly dubious consent is because of michael's ability to mindmeld via kissing. he uses this power as a weapon and i've tried to write it as such, but i've added it just to be safe. i'll do my best to make sure things that need to be tagged are; however, if there's ever something you'd like me to tag or warn for, just let me know!


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